fault. He should have kept watch of things, and not made it possible
for Hal to kill himself by eating a whole big steak!

Yesterday, Lieutenant Golden came in to luncheon, and when we went in
the dining room I saw at once that things were wrong, very wrong. A
polished table is an unknown luxury down here, but fresh table linen
we do endeavor to have. But the cloth on the table yesterday was a
sight to behold, with big spots of dirt all along one side and dirt on
top. Findlay came in the room just as I reached the table, and I said,
"Findlay, what has happened here?" He gave one look at the cloth where
I pointed, and then striking his knuckles together, almost sobbed out,
"Dot tamn dog, mum!" Faye and Lieutenant Golden quickly left the room
to avoid hearing any more remarks of that kind, for it was really very
dreadful in Findlay to use such language. This left me alone, of
course, to pacify the cook, which I found no easy task. Old Findlay
had pickled a choice buffalo tongue with much care and secrecy, and
had served it for luncheon yesterday as a great surprise and treat.
There was the platter on the table, but there could be no doubt of its
having been licked clean. Not one tiny piece of tongue could be seen
any place.

The window was far up, and in vain did I try to convince everyone that
a strange dog had come in and stolen the meat, that Hal was quite too
small to have reached so far; but Findlay only looked cross and Faye
looked hungry, so I gave that up. Before night, however, there was
trouble and a very sick puppy in the house, and once again I thought
he would die. And every few minutes that disagreeable old cook would
come in and ask about the dog, and say he was afraid he could not get
well--always with a grin on his face that was exasperating. Finally, I
told him that if he had served only part of the tongue, as he should